“Asian.”
“Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese?”
“All of the above. Or someone whose ancestors came from Asia. Native American—”
“You talking old Indian bones?”
“Definitely not. This stuff ’s recent.”
He considered a moment, then, “Were the front teeth knocked out?”
I knew what he was thinking. Teeth are often destroyed to hamper identification. That was not the case here. I shook my head.
“Incisors have only one root. When the soft tissue decomposes, there’s nothing to hold them. Most likely, hers just fell out.”
“And went where?”
“They could have filtered through the septic system. Or they could still be wedged in the tank.”
“Would they be useful?”
“Sure. These features are only suggestive.” I waved a hand at the photo.
“So who’s the stranger in the septic tank?”
“Female, probably late teens, possibly Mongoloid ancestry.”
I could sense neurons firing behind the Guernsey eyes.
“Most Guatemalans would have Mongoloid traits?”
“Many would,” I agreed.
“And mighty few Canadians.”
“Native peoples, Asian immigrants, their descendants.”
Galiano said nothing for a long time. Then, “Odds are we’re not looking at Chantale Specter.”
I was about to answer when Hernandez rolled his dolly into the room. The large boxes had been replaced by two trash bags and a black canvas case.
“Where the hell have you been?” Galiano asked his partner.
“Assholes didn’t want to loan out their precious light. Acted like it’s the crown jewels.” Hernandez’s voice sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. “Where do you want this stuff?”
Galiano indicated two folding tables by the right-hand wall. Hernandez offloaded his cargo, then parked the dolly by the remaining boxes.
“Next stuff gets moved, it won’t be me.” Pulling a swatch of yellow from his pocket, he wiped his face. “Goddamn stuff ’s heavy.”
Hernandez shoved the hankie into his back pocket. I watched a corner of yellow swatch storm from the room.
“Let’s have a look at the photos,” Galiano said to me. “Most are from the families. One from the embassy.”
I followed, though I had no need to see the display. I’d worked serial homicides, and knew exactly what was there. Faces: hostile, happy, puzzled, sleepy. Young or old, male or female, stylish or frumpy, pretty or homely, each caught at a moment in time, oblivious to future calamity.
My first glance made me think of Ted Bundy and his taste in victims. All four women had long straight hair, parted down the crown. There the resemblance ended.
Claudia de la Alda was not blessed with beauty. She was an angular young woman with a broad nose and wide-set eyes no larger than olives. In each of three snapshots, she wore a black skirt and a pastel blouse, buttoned to the chin. A silver crucifix rested on her ample chest.
Lucy Gerardi had shiny black hair, blue eyes, a delicate nose and chin. A school portrait showed her in a bright blue blazer and starched white blouse. In a home pic she wore a yellow sundress, and held a schnauzer in her lap. A gold cross nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat.
Though the oldest of the four, Patricia Eduardo didn’t look a day over fifteen. One Kodak moment captured her fiercely erect atop an Appaloosa, eyes shiny black under a derby brim, one hand on the reins, one on her knee. In another she stood beside the horse, staring solemnly at the lens. Like the others, she wore a cross and no makeup.
While De la Alda, Gerardi, and Eduardo seemed to be operating under the influence of Our Lady the Chaste, Chantale Specter looked like a member of the Church of the Lewd. In her mug shot, the ambassador’s daughter sported a midriff tank and skin-tight jeans. Her blonde hair was streaked, her makeup vampire black.
In stark contrast was the portrait submitted through official embassy channels. Chantale posed between Mommy and Daddy on a Queen Anne couch. She wore pumps, hose, and a white cotton dress. No booking number, no streaking, no Bela Lugosi eyes.
Looking from face to face, I felt something go hollow in my chest. Was it possible that all four women were dead? Had we dredged one of them from the Paraiso tank? Was a psychopath on the prowl in Guatemala City? Was he already planning his next kill? Would more photos find their way to this display?
“Doesn’t look like someone who’d hawk ass for drugs.” Galiano was looking at the Specter portrait.
“None of them does.”
